


Act Four

by nlans



Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events at the Gallows, Juliet Hawke tries to figure out how to put Kirkwall back together--but some tasks are beyond even the Champion.</p><p>Follows Hawke and her friends from the end of Dragon Age II through the events of Inquisition, and takes place in the same universe as the Cecily Trevelyan series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Keili leaned against the wall of the tunnel and tried not to obsess over how long they had been in this Darktown hiding spot. A day? Perhaps more? Without sunlight it was almost impossible to tell—but none of them dared set foot outside this dank space.

She felt Miriam rustle at her side and she looked over at her favorite pupil. A streak of dust covered Mirri’s dark cheek; Keili gently brushed it away. Mirri was twelve and already showing such promise as a mage. She would be a worthy First Enchanter one day—if there were any Circles left by the time she came into her full power. Keili stroked a hand over Mirri’s cloud of curls and silently prayed to the Maker, begging him to put the world back in order, to give Mirri and the others a chance for something like a normal life.

When the Knight-Commander had declared the Rite of Annulment she, Alain, and Enchanter Clarence had joined together to protect some of the Circle’s children. They had managed to get five of them out of the Gallows—Miriam, Leon, Polly, Jonas, and Julian. But escaping the Gallows was one thing. Escaping Kirkwall, as it turned out, was an entirely different and much more difficult goal.

 _I should have stayed in the Circle. I should have bowed to the Templars’ swords as I prayed to do for so many years,_ Keili thought, her throat and chest tightening in self-loathing. _But Andraste forgive me, the children did not deserve such a fate … and when I truly faced the chance to die, I found I did not wish it after all._ She’d been told that praying for death was a sin. Keili took some comfort in knowing that she was no longer guilty of that, at least.

“Is that elf going to kill us when we go to her boat?” ten-year-old Julian asked, blinking his huge dark eyes at Keili from the other side of the tunnel. His thin voice held no fear, only curiosity.

“Of course not,” Keili said, a bit too loudly. “Now shush. We don’t want anyone to hear us.”

“Yeah, Julian. _Shut up_ ,” Leon snapped, his eleven-year-old frame almost vibrating with frustration at being cooped up for so long.

“Leon,” Alain whispered warningly.

The elven boy scowled but fell silent. Keili prayed they could all remain quiet for at least a while longer. Kirkwall burned bright with rage over the Grand Cleric’s death and the destruction that the mage-Templar fighting had brought to the city, and they had already been attacked once when a mob of Kirkwall citizens spotted their cowls and robes. They had escaped only at the cost of Enchanter Clarence’s life. Now, after days of little sleep and less to eat, Keili knew that none of them would have the magic to defend themselves again.

The seven of them had traded all the coin and lyrium they had taken from the Circle for passage to Ferelden. At least, that was what the captain of the smuggling vessel had claimed. The Darktown urchin who had brought them to this hiding place claimed that Athenril had a good reputation, that she would be along for them as soon as they could be moved safely through the city, but Keili had no experience with such things.

_Please, Maker. Let us survive this. Let us escape._

Keili fell into a fitful sleep, but awoke less than an hour later when the door to their hiding spot opened. The seven mages stood almost simultaneously, their gazes fixed on the door as a man entered. He was clearly a sailor; his skin was weathered, his arms were corded with muscle, and his clothes were sun-bleached.

 _One of Athenril’s people_ , Keili thought, relief bringing tears to her eyes—but hope quickly died in her chest when she saw the man’s wolfish expression.

“Knew it. Knew that if we looked long enough we would find some new cargo to take back to Minrathous,” he chuckled in a faint Tevinter accent.

Instinctively, Keili reached to gather the children close. Alain took a few shaking steps and planted himself between the children and the slaver. “Y-you won’t take us,” the former blood mage said, clenching his fist, letting fire crackle around it.

“Oh, we don’t plan to. We’ll be wanting the kids, though,” a second voice said. A middle-aged elven woman stepped into the room, her dark eyes glinting. She raised her hands; flames burst from her fingers, brighter and more powerful by far than Alain’s thin spell. “But I’ll make you a bargain. Hand over the children quietly and we’ll leave you two be. Everyone wins.”

Keili clutched at her remaining mana, hoping she would be able to cast _something_ to help the children get away. That hope grew thinner when she saw four more Tevinter slavers step into the room. Polly, only seven, began crying.

“Don’t make me slap you to keep you quiet, brat,” the mage said, her tone almost bored.

Hot rage bloomed in Keili’s chest. “Touch her and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” the mage purred, stroking Keili’s cheek with a tendril of magic. “I know the look of mana depletion when I see it, little apostate.” She smiled. “But if you wish I’ll let you come with them. You’re older than I’d like, but I’m sure we can find you a buyer.”

Keili swallowed as her stomach tried to vomit up its meager contents—but she was saved from a reply when a spell unfurled at the doorway.

Light flared in the room and the air filled with the sharp, crackling sensation of electricity. Keili’s skin prickled and she felt the ends of her hair frizz and curl; she steeled herself against the coming pain, but it never arrived. Three of the Tevinter slavers, however, screamed and fell to the ground, convulsing as lightning skipped over their metal armor and weapons.

As the lightning ebbed a silver-haired elf stepped into the room, his movements so fast and fluid that Keili thought he might be an illusion at first. A strange blue aura flared around him. The Tevinter mage whirled, a spell at the ready—but it fizzled on her fingertips when the elf thrust his hand _into_ her chest. Keili felt her jaw drop in horror. The man twisted his arm; the mage screamed, then went limp. When the elf pulled his hand back the woman tumbled to the floor. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling and a trickle of blood ran out of her open mouth. Whatever the man had done, she was clearly dead.

At Keili’s side, Mirri gasped. The girl pulled her magic close and Keili squeezed her hand to steady her. Whoever this man was, he was no one they could hope to fight—and perhaps she was being foolish, but she felt certain that he was not there for them.

The elf turned to the remaining slavers, his mouth curving in a predatory grin as he reached for his sword. The slavers looked at each other and tried to run for the exit—but suddenly there was someone standing in their way, a human woman wearing a hooded woolen coat. As the slavers reached for their weapons, the woman reached up and lowered her hood. Both slavers froze, their eyes wide and terrified.

“Where do you gentlemen think you’re going?” the Champion of Kirkwall asked, crossing her arms and arching her eyebrow at the slavers. Keili could feel the Champion’s magic even from where she stood; it unfurled from the woman in warm waves, somehow both comforting and terrifying.

“W-we don’t want any trouble,” mumbled the man who’d found them. “Just wanted …”

“To drag the children off to an exciting lifetime of slavery in the Imperium?” Hawke finished, her lip curling. “Yes, yes, we heard that part.” She took a step forward, then another. “Tell you what. We’ll let you live if you carry a message for us.”

The elf growled. “They’re _slavers,_ Hawke.”

“And if we let them go, they can tell all of their little slaver friends that this”— Hawke jerked her chin at the corpses—“is what waits for them in Kirkwall if they try to prey on refugees.” Her eyes brightened. “Do you think that mage might have been someone important? Maybe we should make them take her head back in a bag. _Really_ make the message memorable.”

Polly and Jonas whimpered in unison. The Champion blanched a bit, seeming to spot the children for the first time. “Or we could just take their weapons and let them go,” she said quickly. “Let’s do that. I suggest you drop your swords on the ground, gentlemen. This offer is going to expire quickly.”

The Champion’s ally grumbled something under his breath, but did not move to stop the slavers as they shed their weapons and ran from the room. Only then did Keili really feel that she could breathe again.

“Champion. I am already so far in your debt that I could never hope to repay you, and here you are again,” Alain said. Keili could see his hands shaking; the dark sweat stains under his arms were visible even in this dim light.

“Are you all right?” the Champion said, her voice unexpectedly gentle as she looked at the children. She locked eyes with Keili last. The former Circle mage saw a flash of pity—only a small one, but enough to make Keili’s back stiffen in fury.

“We’re splendid now that you’ve destroyed our home and any hope for our safety,” she snapped. She knew the woman had just saved them, but did she really expect _gratitude_ when she was the reason they were in this horrible situation at all? “If it weren’t for you we could still be in our Circle with the Templars to protect us.”

“ _Protect_ us? The Knight-Commander was going to put all of us to the sword!” Alain protested. “And it wasn’t the Champion who destroyed the Chantry, it was Anders. _And_ he wasn’t wrong to do it!”

Keili opened her mouth to argue, but was cut off when the elven man spoke. “Knight-Commander Meredith is dead. Knight-Captain Cullen is now in charge and he has revoked the Rite of Annulment. He has pledged safety and amnesty for any mages who return to the Circle, if that is truly what you wish.”

Keili stared at the elf for a moment, wondering if his words were some sort of hallucination, then looked to the Champion for confirmation. Hawke nodded. “It’s true. If you want to go back I will return you to the Gallows.” The elf cleared his throat. “Er. Fenris will return you to the Gallows, since I am probably not on the Templars’ list of favored guests at the moment,” the Champion amended wryly.

“And if we don’t want to go back?” Alain asked, raising his chin in a clear challenge.

“Then don’t go back,” Hawke said soothingly, lifting her hands into the air. “I’m telling you your options, Alain, not giving orders.” For some reason, Fenris rolled his eyes at that, but he said nothing.

“I wish to return, please, Serrah Fenris,” Keili said, suddenly close to tears. “And children—you must come with me. You will all be so much safer in a proper Circle.”

“I wanna go back. I want my room again,” Polly said. Jonas and Julian raised their voices in agreement.

“I will wait for Athenril’s man and take our passage to Ferelden,” Alain said. He locked eyes with Leon.

“I’m going with Alain,” the elven boy declared immediately. He gave Fenris a defiant look before joining the former blood mage.

Miriam looked up at Keili, her dark eyes sad and torn. “Mirri. The Circle will be best for you, I promise,” Keili told her, stroking her soft curls.

Mirri thought about it for a moment, then her thin shoulders slumped. “No. No. I don’t like the Templars, Keili. And the Knight-Captain is better than the Knight-Commander but he still _hates_ us.”

Keili had been at the Ferelden Circle and knew better than anyone why the Knight-Captain felt the way he did about mages—but she could not deny the basic truth of her pupil’s words. “He is not a bad man, Mirri. I believe he will protect us if he says he will,” she mumbled.

Mirri just shook her head. She gave Keili a fierce hug around the waist; Keili returned it stiffly, her throat choking with tears. After a beat, Mirri pulled away and crossed the room to Alain and Leon. “It will be nice in Ferelden,” she said bravely. “That’s where you’re from, right, Champion?”

“Just call me Hawke,” the Champion said. Her tone was cheerful but a hint of bitterness clung to the edge of her voice. “Yes, I am from Ferelden. You’ll like it there. I met King Alistair once. He’s given harbor to apostate mages before.”

The elf muttered something in a language Keili didn’t recognize. Hawke gave him a scolding look. “Fenris, that was rude.”

The elf crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at her. “How do you know?”

“I may not know Tevene, but I know you,” the Champion said, a faint smile playing on her lips. “I’ll wait with these three until their escort comes. Meet you back—well, back?”

The elf nodded. “Come,” he said, turning to Keili and the three youngest children. “I will see you safe to the Gallows.”

Fighting exhaustion and an overwhelming urge to cry, Keili took Polly’s hand in hers and motioned for the boys to follow them. “Lead on, Serrah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and suggestions very welcome! I've found Hawke the hardest Dragon Age character to write for by far, with Fenris a close second.


	2. Chapter 2

The journey back to the Gallows was mercifully quiet. The mages’ robes attracted some attention from the men and women in Kirkwall’s streets, but Fenris returned their gazes and even the most hostile citizens found someplace else to look as soon as they met his eyes. Once Fenris would have found it strange to be protecting mages, but all he felt for this battered little group was pity. He wondered if the abomination might have abandoned his mad plan if he could have foreseen these children’s terrified faces. Fenris rather thought not, but anything was possible.

He heard Keili catch her breath when they stepped into the Gallows. He could not blame her. One of the entrances to the Circle was now buried beneath a pile of shattered stones and bloodstains still dotted the ground—to say nothing of the fact that Knight-Commander Meredith was still in the middle of the courtyard, radiating heat and magic and a general sense of menace.

In the midst of this, Knight-Captain Cullen was speaking with two of his Templars, his solemn face drawn and intense as he gestured around what remained of their Circle. Cullen broke off in mid-sentence when he saw them. “Keili!”

The dark-haired mage took a shuddering breath and nodded. “Knight-Captain. I am told that the Rite is no longer in effect?” Fenris noticed her hand tightening around the little girl’s.

“It is not,” Cullen assured her. “You will be safe here. Keran, Tabitha. Please show Keili and the children to the mages’ new quarters.”

“I don’t want a new room. I want _my_ room,” the little girl said, her voice wobbling. Keili lifted the girl in her arms and tried to soothe her as they followed the Templars

“We met the Champion, Ser Tabitha!” one of the little boys announced as they walked away.

Cullen watched them go, then turned his gaze to Fenris. The Knight-Captain ran a hand over his face and gave Fenris a look that the elf couldn’t quite read. “They wished to return to the Circle?”

Fenris nodded. “We told them of your amnesty. Keili was grateful to learn that she and the children could return.”

The Knight-Captain barked out a laugh. “Indeed? She might be the only one.” He sighed. “Perhaps I should not have expected any,” he added quietly.

Fenris grimaced in something like sympathy. He knew Hawke had little use for the Knight-Captain—well, until he’d stepped between her and Meredith—but Fenris saw much of himself in the man. There was a brittle, jagged quality to Cullen that made Fenris suspect he too had seen the worst of magic firsthand and had come away with wounds that went beyond the physical. “Perhaps not. But it was a kind thing to offer,” he said. “You should know that slavers found them first. Kirkwall will be a tempting target for those who trade in mageflesh. Once news of your amnesty spreads, some may grow bold enough to try to take your mages from the Gallows.”

Cullen’s jaw clenched. Then, unexpectedly, a slight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I almost hope they make the attempt. I suspect my Templars would welcome a clean fight against a clear enemy.”

Fenris nodded in solemn agreement; he knew exactly what the Knight-Captain meant. _Such fights have been in short supply of late._

 

* * *

 

Hawke was mildly surprised when a Ferelden teenager arrived an hour later to escort Alain and the children to the docks. She’d been all but convinced that the smuggler had taken the mages’ coin and abandoned them. The fact that Athenril had honored her bargain made the Champion feel oddly hopeful—which in turn made her suspicious all over again.

The girl looked as if she wanted to argue when Hawke said she’d go with them, then appeared to think better of it; she shrugged and let the Champion follow without protest. Hawke spent the whole journey waiting for signs that the group had been sold out to slavers or someone else who wished mages harm, but nothing came. Instead, the girl led them to a warehouse by the docks where Athenril and her people were preparing to depart Kirkwall.

Time had not been kind to the elf. Her red hair was now streaked with grey and her face looked as if it had aged twenty years. Hawke was somewhat surprised that Athenril was still operating at all. Isabela had heard that she was on the verge of being squeezed out by the bigger and scarier smugglers in the Free Marches. Not for the first time Hawke wondered how things would have gone if they’d accepted Athenril’s offer instead of Meeran’s.

Athenril sighed loudly when she spotted their group. “Champion. The fee we were paid doesn’t come _close_ to covering a fugitive of your status.”

Hawke shook her head. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to board your boat. I just wanted to make sure Alain and the children reached you safely.”

Athenril looked over at the little group. “What of your friends? I was told there would be seven of you.”

“Keili took the Knight-Captain’s offer of amnesty,” Alain said. His mouth thinned unhappily. “I don’t suppose you’d refund their passage.”

Athenril gave him a flat look. “No. We’ve already spent the coin getting the ship ready for transport.”

“What about applying it to other refugees?” Hawke asked. “When do you leave?”

The smuggler crossed her arms and frowned. “Tomorrow at first light,” she replied after a moment. “But I have no reason to risk more by taking more people.” Her eyes watched Hawke closely.

“I’ll match the passage they paid,” Hawke said with a sigh. “Just tell me the price and I’ll get you the coin.”

A triumphant smirk flickered at the edges of Athenril’s mouth. “In that case I suppose I could take on four more, _if_ they’re here before we depart. But no more than four. And at the first sign of trouble they go into the Waking Sea.”

“Understood,” Hawke assured her. Oddly, Athenril’s greed felt reassuring. _I expected no more, and no less._

Once outside the warehouse, Hawke lifted her hood back into place and began the journey back to Hightown. The docks were a mess—filled with rubble and makeshift barricades and more than a little blood—but at least they looked better than Lowtown. She forced herself not to walk too quickly, to hunch her shoulders and move as if she were afraid, to keep her head down so the hood would hide her face and hair. It wasn’t much of a disguise but so far it had served her well. It had been five days since the mage rebellion and the only people who had recognized her had been the people she’d wanted to scare.

When she arrived in Hightown she quickly slipped into the back alleys and entered Fenris’s mansion through the rear entrance, the one that was supposed to be used by servants. Isabela and Varric were sitting by the fire in the kitchen, both looking uncharacteristically sober.

“What’s wrong?” Hawke asked immediately, her stomach sinking as she pulled her hood down.

Isabela met her eyes and grinned; the tension melted from her instantaneously. “Nothing _now_. You’re late, Hawke.”

“Fenris and I ran into a team of slavers.”

“So he said.” Varric stretched in his chair. “But he’s been back for over an hour now. Go let him know you’re all right. Five more minutes and he’ll start taking Kirkwall apart brick by brick.”

“At least the mages and Templars gave him a good head start on that,” Isabela said wryly.

Hawke forced herself to chuckle, but the truth of Isabela’s statement stung. The last time she’d been in Lowtown it had seemed as if half the buildings were now rubble. “I’ll go see him.”

Fenris was pacing in the entrance to his mansion, his arms crossed and his posture almost vibrating with tension. Hawke’s stomach twisted in guilt. Much as she loved him—and though she hadn’t said it out loud yet, she knew she did—sometimes she wondered if being with him was a selfish thing. She hated that he worried about her, hated the way that worry tore at him. _  
_

“Athenril’s people came for the others,” she said tentatively, not wanting to startle him. “I returned as soon as I could.”

The elf paused in mid-pace. Slowly, he turned his head towards her. His frame relaxed as his eyes took her in. “Good,” he said.

For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Fenris stepped towards her and reached out to brush a thumb across her cheek. “Good,” he repeated quietly, his chest rising and falling in a silent, relieved sigh.

Half a breath later Fenris’s hand was sliding into her hair and he was pressing his mouth against hers. The kiss was fierce and possessive, as if he wanted to reassure himself that she really had returned. Hawke rested her hands at his waist and kissed him back.

“I’m sorry you were worried,” she whispered when the kiss ended.

“Why would you think I was worried?” he murmured, his mouth quirking in that delicious half-smile.

“Just a guess,” she said lightly.

A knock on Fenris’s front door made them both jump a bit. “It’s me!” Carver’s voice called.

Reluctantly, Hawke and Fenris released one another; Hawke melted into the shadows beneath the staircase as Fenris went to open his door. He opened it only a crack, blocking entrance to his home with his slim frame, then nodded and shifted to admit the newcomers. Carver and his fellow Warden Nathaniel stepped inside.

Carver spotted her first. “You can come out,” he said, shaking his head a bit.

“It’s like the good old days when I was hiding from the Templars, remember?” Hawke cracked as she moved into the entryway. “How are things at M—at home?” She’d almost said _at Mother’s_.

“Quiet for now. There was some indication that a thief tried to pick your locks, but he or she was unsuccessful,” Nathaniel informed her. “My thanks for offering us the use of your estate, Champion.”

“No thanks needed. It’s not as if I can be there right now,” Hawke replied. “And it’s as much Carver’s as it is mine.”

“That’s right, I _was_ down in the Deep Roads helping you find all that treasure and getting poisoned for my trouble. Thank you for remembering,” Carver said sarcastically.

Hawke decided to ignore him. “How long will you stay in Kirkwall?”

“Another day, or perhaps two,” Nathaniel said. “I wish we could remain to help your city, Champion, but the Wardens will want to hear what we found in the Deep Roads.” His serious face tightened at the memory. Hawke wondered if any of the other Wardens had managed to make it back to the surface after that ill-advised expedition.

“Welcome back!” a new voice called from upstairs.

Hawke noticed Carver stand a bit straighter as Merrill descended the stairs, her light steps making no sound against the stone. “How was it at Hawke’s? I was at the alienage with Isabela and Varric earlier today and really, it’s not so bad as I thought it might be.” Not even an exploding Chantry and a mage rebellion had quelled Merrill’s sunny outlook. “I think I’ll be able to return home in a day or so. Not that I don’t like staying here. It’s quite fun, almost like a party!”

Fenris closed his eyes and groaned under his breath. Hawke couldn’t help a grin. “And your friends?” she asked the other mage. Merrill had been helping a pair of elven refugees from the Circle.

The cheer momentarily dissolved from Merrill’s expression. “They’re all right. No one’s noticed a few more elves in the alienage. But everyone’s so angry about what Anders did—about all the fighting. They won’t be safe here for long.”

“There are four places available on a ship leaving Kirkwall tomorrow,” Hawke said. “If your friends want to leave, we can take them to Athenril.”

Merrill beamed at her. “That would be splendid! I’ll tell them right away.”

Across the room, Hawke saw Carver pause in the middle of unbuckling his sword harness. “I’ll go with you," he said a little too quickly. Hawke bit back a smile; apparently Carver's crush on Merrill had survived his time away from Kirkwall.

Merrill, however, remained oblivious. She blinked her huge eyes at the Warden in mild puzzlement. “I’m perfectly safe, Carver. I think Varric’s still paying people to leave me alone.”

“Take Junior with you, Daisy,” Varric told her as he stepped into the now-crowded entryway. “People have a way of forgetting that I paid them when the city’s falling to pieces.”

“I really hate it when you call me that,” Carver grumbled, but without heat.

“Or I could go with you,” Hawke offered.

“On the other hand, maybe I should take Carver. Thank you, Carver, that would be lovely!” Merrill said. She shifted her feet and didn’t meet Hawke’s eyes. Hawke frowned a bit—was there some reason Merrill didn’t want her in the alienage?

That thought was interrupted when Carver cleared his throat. “Juliet, can I have a word before we go?” He pointed upstairs, clearly indicating that he wanted to have this conversation in private.

Hawke fought back a grimace. _‘A word’? That’s never a good sign._ “Of course, brother mine. Lead on.”

She followed Carver up the stairs to Danarius’s old study, wincing as the stairs creaked. Fenris had never been one for repairs—or dusting—and every time Hawke climbed this staircase she wondered if this would be the day it crumbled beneath her boots. After the rebellion they had turned the study into a makeshift bedchamber for Isabela, Merrill, and Varric. Blankets and pillows littered the floor along with a few personal trinkets that they’d rescued. Hawke smiled a bit when she saw that Merrill had brought the wooden halla she’d given her all those years ago. Her smile widened when she saw that one of Isabela’s naughtier books sat beside the halla. _Merrill!_

She glanced over at her brother; his eyes were also crinkling with amusement as he noticed Merrill’s choice of reading material. Not for the first time, Hawke thought about how much Carver had changed since joining the Wardens. They still squabbled—bickering was basically the central pillar of their relationship—but he seemed calmer, sturdier, more _himself_. A warm feeling of pride spread in her chest. Not that she would have admitted that to him.

Carver waited for her to close the door before he spoke. “Juliet. You need to come with us when we leave Kirkwall.”

Hawke bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Nathaniel spotted half a dozen people who were keeping an eye on the estate. They’re looking for you. You’re not safe here and you know it,” Carver said soberly. “And the longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave without getting caught.”

“Maker take _safe_ , Carver! I’m not abandoning Kirkwall,” Hawke spat. She crossed her arms and pulled her shoulders back. “Fenris and I ran into slavers today. If we hadn’t been there five children would have been shipped off to the Imperium. There are predators circling this city and someone has to stop them.”

“If only Kirkwall had a decent Guard-Captain,” Carver said wryly.

“Aveline can’t be everywhere at once. She’s going to need all the help she can get.” Hawke shook her head emphatically. “I’m not leaving.”

Her brother sighed. “I thought that’s what you would say. Well, I tried.” He shrugged his shoulders in feigned nonchalance, but she could read his frustration in the line between his eyebrows and the tense set of his mouth.

“Don’t _worry_ , Carver. I admit things are bad in Kirkwall but I know how to hide,” Hawke said, trying to be reassuring. “We had a lot of practice growing up, after all. And at least this time the Templars aren’t after me.” _I think._ Cullen had let her walk away from the battle at the Gallows but she still half expected him to change his mind.

“Splendid. You traded the Templars for an entire city, the Chantry, and every bounty hunter in Thedas,” Carver said, shaking his head.

“You know me. I like a challenge.” Hawke tried to reach for her old confidence, that breezy just-try-and-stop-me tone of voice, but the words sounded sharp and forced in her ears.

Carver glared at her for a moment. She thought he was about to say something cutting, but instead he sighed again and said, “Just—just think about it, all right?”

Hawke reached out and put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

And that was the end of the conversation—even though they both knew she had just lied.


	3. Chapter 3

Merrill’s mind raced as she led Carver through Kirkwall’s back alleys. After seven years, she finally knew this route well enough that she could follow it without getting lost—even when she was preoccupied, as she was now. _Creators. I can’t take him there. He’ll tell Hawke, and …_

“Carver, would you promise me something?” she asked impulsively, turning to look at the young Warden.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Of course.”

He didn’t even hesitate a little. Merrill smiled. “You’re awfully nice. I’ve missed you, you know. It’s good to have you back even if it’s for a terrible reason.”

Carver grinned back at her—and his cheeks turned a faint pink. Merrill wondered why that was. “I’ve missed you too.”

Merrill twisted her fingers in front of her, wondering if she’d regret this request. “I need you to promise me you won’t tell your sister where we’re going.”

“We’re not going to the alienage?” Carver asked. A line appeared between his eyebrows.

“Oh, no, we are. But before that we’re going to meet someone—oh, Creators. Just promise me you won’t tell her who. Please. I do trust your sister but she won’t understand. I know she won’t.”

Carver chuckled. “I know what that’s like. Very well. Merrill, I swear I will not reveal the identity or location of the person we are about to meet.” He sealed this promise with a very elaborate bow. Merrill returned it in kind before wondering if she was supposed to curtsy. She never could get these shemlen rituals right.

Carver followed her through the crumbled Lowtown streets to a now-abandoned warehouse around the corner from the entrance to the alienage. A rusted metal door barred the way inside; Merrill thought it had been the home of one of those gangs Hawke was so fond of chasing out, though it had now been empty for years.

It still looked empty from the outside, the door closed, the windows filthy, the interior dark. Carver gave her a very odd look as she began to climb the stairs, his head slightly tilted, his eyebrows making a little furrow on top of his nose. He didn’t say anything, but even so Merrill felt a flicker of doubt.

Maybe it was empty. Maybe Merrill was wrong.

But she didn’t think she was.

She tilted her chin up and pushed open the door. Her steps normally made little noise, but Merrill stomped a bit, trying to announce herself, not wanting to sneak. The furrow above Carver’s brow deepened as he followed her inside.

“Shut the door,” Merrill told him. When he did so, Merrill cleared her throat and called out, “It’s me. Merrill. Carver too. I know you’re here.”

A long silence followed. Carver looked at her and opened his mouth—but then another voice broke the quiet. “ _What._ Are. You. Doing. Here?”

Carver’s face slackened in shock as Anders stepped into the light.

The mage looked much the worse for wear. His distinctive feathered jacket was gone; instead he wore a ragged cloak with a hood, not unlike the coat Hawke had taken to wearing. His hair was lank and greasy and his eyes were red. He looked as if he had not slept in days.

“I saw four cats earlier today, meowing and eating some food someone had left out on the back step. I thought, who would feed stray cats while hiding during a rebellion?” Merrill shrugged. “And then I knew it was you.”

Justice’s silver glow shone briefly in Anders’s eyes. “You will not take me alive.”

Merrill felt her brow furrow in confusion. “Take you? Take you where?”

The glow died; Anders let out a bitter chuckle. “Andraste’s ass. What do you _want,_ Merrill?”

Merrill squared her shoulders. “There’s a ship going to Ferelden tomorrow that’s taking refugees. I thought you might like to be on it.”

“You’re helping _him_ escape?” Carver burst out. “Out of all the refugees in Kirkwall, you think _he_ deserves to be the one to leave safely?”

Merrill sighed. She hadn’t expected Carver to understand any more than Hawke would have, but it was still frustrating. _Must everyone question everything I do?_ “Remember, you promised you wouldn’t tell Hawke,” she warned.

Carver groaned. “And I’m regretting it, believe me.” He glared at Anders. “I don’t understand why she didn’t kill you.”

“Because I saved _you_ in the Deep Roads,” Anders spat. “‘A life for a life,’ she said. But she did say she’d kill me the next time she saw me, if it’s any comfort.”

Carver fell silent at that. Anders returned his gaze to Merrill. “Why _are_ you helping me?”

 _You pity him because he’s you_ , Fenris’s voice whispered. Merrill told that voice to hush. There was more to it than that.

“You did what you did because you were trying to help people. I don’t think you went about it the right way, but you wanted to do good,” Merrill replied. “And you and Hawke were friends once. I don’t want her to kill you. She’d regret it, I know she would.”

Anders snorted. “So I should leave Kirkwall to save Hawke the guilt of murdering me?”

“ _Why_ is it always so impossible to talk to you?” Merrill threw her hands up and tried to keep her voice even. “Were you really planning to stay here?”

“Of course not.” Anders squared his shoulders defiantly. “A group of Circle mages—but you don’t need to know that. Suffice it to say that I don’t need your help. I’ll be gone by this time tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Carver muttered. “Come on, Merrill. Let’s go help some people who _didn’t_ blow up a Chantry.”

Merrill felt her shoulder slump a bit—only a bit. She hadn’t truly expected Anders to accept her help. But in spite of everything, in spite of how much he hated her and scorned her choices, she’d had to offer.

“Your sister’s a hypocrite,” Anders called as they walked away. “I did what I did to aid the cause of mages everywhere, so all of us could live the way she does—free and outside the Circle.”

“Juliet wants that too, you know,” Carver said wearily. “She’s not as tiresome about it as you, but you know damned well she’d dissolve every Circle and free every mage if she could.”

“So she says. You may judge me all you like. But mages’ freedom will not be won by _wishing_ for it.” Justice’s deep, metallic voice echoed at the back of those words.

Merrill kept walking. She had no response to that—largely because she didn’t entirely disagree.

 

* * *

 

Hawke didn’t press Merrill about her trip to the alienage. Her friendship with the elf had only just begun to mend itself; it still felt as if the wrong words might shatter it again. Varric had told her she didn’t need to worry so much about it—or, as he’d put it, “Stop walking on eggshells around Daisy, Hawke. It’s weird.” But Hawke couldn’t help herself. She’d lost too many people to risk pushing Merrill away again. She’d just have to pester Carver the next time they spoke alone.

Their little group did what they could with the stale bread and unhappy-looking vegetables that Nathaniel had brought over from the Amell estate. With Orana gone to Orlais as the De Launcet family’s assistant cook, there had been no one to keep the kitchen stocked—and most shops were closed due to the rioting and the damage in the city. Fortunately the two Wardens had experience at cooking with poor rations; the resulting dinner wasn’t half bad. The addition of wine from Danarius’s cellar certainly helped, even if Fenris kept insisting that all that was left were the poorer vintages. After only a bit of pleading they persuaded Carver and Nathaniel to stay for a few hands of Wicked Grace after dinner. Nathaniel’s quick fingers rivaled Isabela’s but Carver still couldn’t sell a bluff.

“Junior’s learned a lot from the Wardens. But apparently not how to play cards,” Varric chortled when Carver and Nathaniel departed to return to the Amell estate. He patted his pile of silver with a very satisfied look on his face.

“He’s still better than I am,” Merrill sighed, looking down at her handful of remaining coppers.

“You’re improving, kitten,” Isabela said, eyeing Varric’s silver with a predatory raised eyebrow.

“Has anyone heard from Aveline today?” Hawke asked as Fenris dealt the next hand.

“She dropped by while you and Fenris were out.” Isabela stretched back in her chair. “Said she’d be back tomorrow. But I think she’s worried about drawing too much attention to this place.” The pirate gave Hawke a warning look. “She wasn’t terribly happy that you’d gone out.”

Hawke groaned. “Andraste’s ass, does she really expect me to twiddle my thumbs behind locked doors after everything that’s happened?”

“I doubt it. She wasn’t happy, but she didn’t look very surprised either,” Varric said wryly. He lifted the corners of his cards with one thumb and tossed in two coppers as ante. Isabela soon followed suit, as did Hawke. But when Fenris’s turn came he shook his head.

“I think this hand is my sign to retire for the evening.” The elf set his cards face-down on the table and pushed his handful of remaining coin over to Isabela. “Here. See if you can win some back from Varric.” He brushed his hand over Hawke’s shoulder as he stood.

“Thanks for the help!” Isabela called after him as he departed.

Hawke wondered if she should follow, but decided to wait. Fenris liked his space; playing host to so many people was not easy for him. She suspected he would enjoy at least a bit of time alone.

An hour later the game broke up and Hawke climbed the stairs to Fenris’s bedroom, using a small candle to light her way. She pushed open the door as quietly as she could—but then saw that the candles still alight in Fenris’s room and blew hers out with a little puff of her breath.

Fenris’s bedroom was somewhat less dusty than the rest of the mansion, though that wasn’t saying much. It was also the only room Fenris had made significant changes to in the seven years he’d lived in Kirkwall. Shortly after he’d moved into the mansion Fenris had dragged most of the furniture into the kitchen and broken it up for firewood. Then he’d thrown out the old bedclothes and broken off the top of the bed’s canopy—to rid the place of Danarius’s scent, he’d said. The only pieces of furniture in the room now were two smallish chairs and a very rumpled bed with four uneven posts that were splintering at the top.

Hawke squinted, trying to make out Fenris’s familiar shape in the pile of blankets. Then she realized Fenris wasn’t in them at all. She frowned in annoyance when she saw where he was—lying on the bedroll at the back of the room, curled on his side, his back towards the door.

“Fenris. I know you’re not asleep. I slept in the bed last night.” She eased the door shut behind her.

Fenris turned and sat up easily, meeting her gaze with an arched eyebrow. “Most people would be touched that their lover doesn’t want them sleeping on the floor,” he pointed out.

“Yes, they would, so why aren’t you thanking me?” Hawke teased. “You’ve already given up the rest of your home, you shouldn’t have to give up your bed as well.” She unfastened the straps on her bits of armor and let out a sigh of relief as she lifted the weight away, then sat on the floor and turned her attention to her boots.

Fenris watched her but made no move to leave the bedroll. “Hawke,” he said softly. He waited to continue until she rose her eyes and met his gaze. “Does it bother you?”

Hawke didn’t have to ask what he meant. Soon after their reunion they had realized that it was near-impossible for Fenris to sleep with another person in the bed. It hadn’t posed much of a problem before the rebellion; they’d just slept in their separate homes. But it did feel different when they were in the same room and one of them was on the floor.

Hawke pulled off her second boot, then looked him in the eye when she answered. “No,” she said honestly. “I understand, Fenris. Really. It doesn’t bother me at all.” She gave him a mock-stern look, trying to lighten the mood. “It _will_ bother me if you don’t take your turn in the bed like we agreed, though.”

He chuckled lightly. “You are planning to be stubborn about this, aren’t you?”

“I take all of my cues on stubbornness from you,” Hawke shot back. She stood and walked over to the chair where she had tossed her night clothes, sliding her tunic over her head as she did so. “Now get out of my bedroll so I can get some sleep.”

She heard the bedroll rustle; a moment later Fenris was standing behind her, curling his hand around her bare shoulder. Hawke closed her eyes and leaned back into his touch, her breath quickening as he wrapped his arms around her.

“What if we compromised?” he whispered. “We could both start the night in the bed.”

Hawke grinned. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since I came up here.”


End file.
